


A Shiny, Jangly, Molko Clone

by evilmaniclaugh



Series: The Molko Diaries [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gender Confusion, M/M, Multi, Plural Relationships, Poly Relationships, Sexual Confusion, Sexual exploration, musketeers modern au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part seven in the learning curve of sexually repressed, drunk!Athos with guy liner. Modern day AU set in London around 2004 where Porthos and Aramis are 20 and Athos is 23.</p><p>The final episode in which Athos is a Capote character, Porthos is an undiscovered country and Aramis gets the hump.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Athos is now a permanent fixture in their once simple lives, and his slightly loopy presence allows them to investigate their own needs more thoroughly. He's Lucifer, the bringer of light, the one who questions everything with an honest desire to learn.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shiny, Jangly, Molko Clone

With Aramis out tomcatting Porthos grows fretful, especially as his other boyfriend is also missing in action. When he mooches upstairs to investigate sounds of life, he discovers that, rather than just being left open all the time, the door to Athos' room is actually broken. He's vulnerable and Porthos is filled with an urge to wrap him up in and keep him safe.

"You just in from work?" he calls.

There's no one downstairs and so Porthos climbs the spiral beanstalk to that magical rooftop kingdom.

"What you doing up here?" he asks when he finds Athos out on the balcony.

"Drinking coffee," says Athos with a smirk.

Porthos pours himself a thick, dark espresso from the pot and dilutes it with water from the hot tap. He joins Athos outside and together they look at a bird's eye view of London. 

"Hello you," he murmurs under his breath as he hooks an arm around Athos' waist. 

He's wearing that fuzzy boat necked jumper from the strip show and all Porthos can think of is white cotton panties and sex. He still has mixed feelings about that day, but it did ultimately achieve something, bringing them much closer together. It was also an outrageously erotic experience.

"Where have you been this time?" says Porthos, dropping a kiss onto Athos' shoulder and licking into the exposed crook of neck. He smells of very expensive sin.

"New York, Paris, I don't know," sighs Athos. "Not here where I want to be."

"You should be here all the time," agrees Porthos and he tightens his hold on his girl. "You're ours."

"Your very own Holiday Golightly," says Athos with a smirk.

"You're not a prostitute," says Porthos and he's clouded with anger that Athos sees such little worth in himself.

"I can be your whore, if you like," says Athos leaning into him. 

Porthos takes Athos' cup and puts it, along with his, down on the tiny bistro table. Hands shaking, he unfastened buckles and zips and peels Athos' jeans down his legs. He crouches, taking off boots and then trousers until Athos is bare, other than a pair of snug panties and that sweater.

"I'm a very lucky boyfriend," he says, kissing his way back up Athos' legs. Standing in his original position, he strokes his hand over a lace clad hard on and shivers with excitement. "Can I fuck you?"

"We should go to bed," says Athos, turning in his arms. "I want to explore your boundaries."

Porthos has never descended a flight of stairs, nor got undressed so quickly. He throws himself onto Athos' monstrous rococo bed wearing nothing but a grin. "I'm all yours, darling."

"Ours," corrects Athos. "You will always be ours."

In a remarkably clever impersonation of Ninon, adopting all the professor's vocal characteristics, if not her tone, Athos says: "Today I'm going to teach you about your inner girl."

He reaches under the bed for the box of delights whilst Porthos is left wondering whether he actually has an inner girl. He very much doubts it. He's played at dressing up once or twice, but with his physique and uber masculine features has always felt self conscious and silly. 

He runs a hand over the rough lace pants that just about harness Athos' cock and balls. "If I have one she's a lot more repressed than yours, and I doubt you'll have a pair of knickers that fit."

"Now's not the time for joking," says Professor Athos. "You're only using it as a defence mechanism to cover your inadequacies." He rests his finger against Porthos' lips and Porthos opens up and takes it into his mouth, fellating it like a tiny cock.

Athos moans softly under his breath and then pulls it free with a pop. "Close your eyes," he says and Porthos does as he's told, relaxing completely as Athos spreads his legs and kneels between them. "Keep them closed," he continues, "and only speak in order to answer my questions, or to tell me if you're unhappy."

Porthos wriggles in delight at the intrusion of a finger inside him. He wonders how very much more repressed Athos must have been before Ninon grasped the opportunity to untangle his knots.

"This plug is small and specifically designed to tease your sweet spot," says Athos. 

"You're my sweet spot," grins Porthos and then he remembers he's not supposed to be speaking and zips his lips.

Athos huffs with laughter and Porthos cracks open an eye to have a peep at him.

"Bad boy," tuts Athos, but he's smiling and he looks so fucking pretty that it's all Porthos can do not to seize control and kiss the daylights out of him. "Close your eyes or playtime is over."

Porthos doesn't want it to be over. There's something wickedly secretive about the two of them being alone and doing this with each other. The jealous part of him enjoys the fact that Aramis could come home from screwing Louis and Anne and not even know that he and Athos are having sex up here. 

He shivers as he's penetrated by a miniature curved dildo which pushes against his gland, doing all manner of crazy things to his brain.

"Move about," instructs Athos. "Wriggle your arse, shift your hips, see how it feels to get excited in a different way."

"I'm already excited," growls Porthos. His cock has been at full erection since they started this. "I'm pretty offended you can't tell."

There's the distinctive buzz of a vibrator and Porthos gasps when it slinks over each nipple. The sensation is intense, causing him to buck upwards and the pressure on his sweet spot is electrifying, enough to make him cry out. The addition of a rubber cock ring adds to his thrill.

"Look at yourself," says Athos. "Look at your girl body meeting your boy body."

Porthos rests up on his elbows and stares down in wonder. His cock is beautifully swollen and, trapped within the band, his balls are full and ready, but it's the rhythmic writhing which is so unexpected. Unaware that he was even moving, he watches from an out of body perspective as he arches then grinds, stimulating himself on the dildo inside him.

"How gorgeous are you?" says Athos, full of pride at his creation. 

He kneels again and Porthos cries out in frustration when that penetrative object is removed before he can come.

"Just a second," says Athos, a lube dispenser in his hand, and a wicked grin on his face. "Let's call this one Aramis so he can be here with us in spirit."

He slides the dildo, a tiny amount at a time, inside Porthos until it's lodged all the way and trapped in place. It's a weird and wonderful sensation and Porthos lets his girl body react, spreading himself open and grinding down on the large rubberised shaft. 

Athos adopts his amused Ninon voice. "I'm turning Aramis on now."

The sensations inside Porthos are unbelievable, his brain is tickled by feathers of electric light and everything becomes a series of almost orgasms. He reaches for his private parts, trapped inside that band, and holds himself steady. "Fuck yourself on me."

"Thought you'd never ask," says Athos as he straddles him, pulling his panties to one side then lubing up.

"Fuck me," demands Porthos, the call of orgasm looming.

He growls as Athos sinks onto him, stimulated in every way possible, then opens his eyes and watches his beautiful girl fuck herself on him. He rubs his hand possessively over that encased cock, releasing it from its prison and from then on is lost as life becomes a whirl of magic. He cries out for Athos and for Aramis, then overwhelmed by something that's so near and yet so very far away from pain, he comes in violent spasms, fingers digging into Athos' hips, soaked from Athos' sperm. 

Done, knackered, dead to the world they collapse onto each other, Porthos freeing himself from the cock ring as Athos removes the vibrator from inside him. 

"I'm well and truly screwed," says Porthos with a grin. He'll never have lovers like these again. He knows he must keep them safe at all costs and kisses Athos dry and soft on the lips. "That was amazing. Thank you."

Athos tolerates the contact for a moment and then inches away and hides himself in the crook of Porthos' neck.

"Sleep," he says as Porthos strokes his lace covered arse, ignoring the itch of the fuzzy sweater against his skin.

*

Athos is now a permanent fixture in their once simple lives and his slightly loopy presence allows them to investigate their own needs more thoroughly. He's Lucifer, the bringer of light, the one who questions everything with an honest desire to learn.

"Aramis, have you ever fucked Porthos?" he asks as they slouch together on the sofa, dressed only in underwear, drinking booze from the bottle and watching MTV.

"No," Aramis kisses the top of Athos' head. "You know I haven't, baby girl."

"Why not?" 

"I dunno," says Aramis. "He doesn't really like the idea of it."

"You like my finger well enough." Athos winds himself around Porthos, hand dipping into his boxers. "You want Aramis to fuck you, don't you?"

"Shut it," growls Porthos. "We're being civilised and watching telly." He can't deny how excited he is by the idea, his cock hard, legs parted to allow Athos access to him.

"You fuck him," says Aramis, who's also at full erection. They really are shit at deception.

"Can't," says Athos. "Wrong day."

Even without the hint of makeup and the silk panties peeking out from that oversized NIN t-shirt, it's easy to tell that Athos is a girl. His chattiness and tactile nature give the game away. Porthos took him as soon as they woke up this morning, fucked him hard face to face, filling his tight little cunt with come, and that was long before eyeliner and lipgloss had been applied.

He and Aramis glance at each other, eyes glazed over with desire. 

Do you want to?" says Aramis.

Porthos nods and they come crashing together, mouths latched tight, all strangulated groans and wandering hands.

"I'll get the lube and condoms," says Athos, wandering off happily.

Underwear is ripped away and they stretch out naked on the length of the sofa, frotting, kissing, talking. 

"Have you done it before?" asks Aramis. He tugs at Porthos' lower lip with his teeth then llicks into his mouth.

"No," mumbles Porthos fighting to speak against a mouthful of tongue. "I want you to be my first." It's a perfect circle with Athos as catalyst. 

"He's had a dildo in him," smirks Athos from the sidelines.

"Snitch," laughs Porthos, blushing as he thinks about Athos playing at being Ninon, grooming him, minx-like, for this moment. He's never come so hard as he did that day. "Over here right now, you troublemaker."

He wants Athos with them when they do this. He wants to lie back in his arms, feel the scratch of the the silver jewellery and enjoy every minute of this. He wants them _all_ to enjoy every moment of this.

They manoeuvre themselves into position, and as Aramis kisses his way upwards from toes to thighs, Porthos throws his head back and gazes at Athos.

"Hello, gorgeous man," says Athos, stroking his hair. 

Porthos smiles up at him. He can feel Athos' cock trapped inside a filmy barrier of silk. "Do you want to move so you can have a wank?" he asks.

Athos shakes his head. "I want to stay right here," he says. "There's no better seat in the house."

Porthos would reply but all he can do is moan when Aramis shifts sideways and his tongue licks parts that have never been licked before.

"Oh fuck," he says eventually. "That is something else." He could come from this alone.

"And now you know why I don't kiss," laughs Athos. "Who knows where tongues have been."

Porthos couldn't give a damn because Aramis is now kneeling between his legs, skinning on a condom and trembling with need. "You're sure want this?" he says in confusion.

"So much." Aramis positions himself and stares into Porthos' eyes. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Don't know what?" says Porthos as Aramis reaches down to open him ready.

"How amazing you are," says Aramis and he breaks eye contact and looks away.

Porthos squirms against Aramis' fingers which are now stroking at his sweet spot, sending jagged currents of electricity searing through him. "If you'd wanted to fuck me, you could have just asked," he says, though the chances are high that he would have said no to this without having an Athos to tempt him into it. 

Aramis lets out this roar of want and inches forward, the head of his cock embedded now, hotter, sexier, better than anything Porthos could ever imagine. He bears down and pushes against it, as Athos has taught him to do, and the working of the muscle draws Aramis inside him. 

"God, Porth," murmurs Aramis. "We're really doing this."

The fuck is beautiful, there’s no other word to describe it, and cushioned against Athos, his mouth pressed to pale skin, Porthos feels too much and never wants to leave their arms.

*

Happiness is having a king size bed and two boyfriends, thinks Porthos as he slides an arm around each of his men and pulls them close to him. It's Saturday, so no early morning classes. Just a lazy, layabout day with nothing to do except enjoy themselves until the Placebo gig in the evening.

Athos wakes first and crawls on top, nipping at his skin and rubbing against him, a rough and tumble boy. 

"You want to fuck me, or get fucked?" says Porthos.

Athos looks up and grins. "I'm going to ride you so slowly you'll be screaming for Aramis to rescue you."

"Won't happen because I'll have my cock in your arse too." Aramis grabs at him, ruts against him and helps him onto Porthos. They bareback now, having messy, fun sex all the hours god gives them and more if they can manage.

The squeeze as Aramis joins him inside Athos is unbearably good. It's a wriggle of bodies rather than a fuck, pressed so tightly, as they are, that the tiniest of movements pushes them close to coming. Eventually Athos spreads himself out like a starfish and lets the other two take on the workload, and they fuck joyously to a triple climax with Athos finishing in last place with a hot flood over Porthos' belly.

"To think you didn't used to like sex," laughs Porthos, kissing Athos chastely on the forehead. "No sleeping now, pretty boy. It's your turn to make us breakfast."

"Wine," mutters Athos.

"Wine is not sustenance," laughs Aramis. "How many times do we have to tell you!"

Athos peers over his shoulder. "Grapes are fruit and also used in salad. Fruit salad is a breakfast item. QED."

They throw him out of bed and he mewls like a disgruntled cat, padding off to the kitchen in a pretend strop and Porthos is so gloriously happy with his life that he's embarrassingly close to tears.

"This is good, but there's no need to cry over it," laughs Aramis, chucking him under the chin and giving him a lengthy kiss.

After a day of slobbing about, Athos disappears upstairs to preen himself ready for the gig.

"Make yourself pretty for your boyfriend," yells Aramis.

He returns an hour later, a shiny, jangly Molko clone with a smear of angry eyeliner and a hint of lipgloss.

"Come down here looking like that and I'm going to take you straight back to bed." Porthos lifts Athos up and fondles him, all set to unwrap his favourite present.

“Put me down, you oik,” laughs Athos.

“That’s what rich boys call peasants,” translates Aramis with a chuckle.

“Oh really.” Porthos lets Athos slide to the ground, but keeps a firm hold on him with arms wrapped around his waist. “An oik, am I?” he says, dotting Athos’ face with kisses, getting ever closer to his mouth until his tongue darts out and licks at the cherry flavoured gloss. He wants this kiss very badly indeed.

Athos swallows, his lips almost part, but then he smirks and pulls back. “You’re making me go cross eyed.”

“Close your eyes then,” says Porthos and the moment hangs there, a second, two seconds, and then it's gone and Athos wriggles free to check his oversized watch.

"Come on," he insists. "We have to go now."

Ignoring the homophobic remarks from the ignorant few, they take the Met to Hammersmith Broadway and as they queue up outside the venue Athos is trembling with excitement. His shivering only grows worse as they pile inside, past the attendants who rip their tickets and hand them back and then direct them through into the auditorium.

"I'll get us drinks," says Aramis, squeezing Athos on the shoulder as he walks past. "A bucket of wine might stop this one from coming in his knickers."

"Boxers today," chuckles Porthos, squeezing his hand under the waistband of Athos' skintight leathers to have a rummage. Not that he needs to. He's so tuned in to Athos' gender now he can feel it as soon as they're awake.

'Oi," says Athos indignantly for the second time today.

Aramis returns with two pints of lager and what looks like a pint of red wine in one of those wobbly, plastic beer glasses.

"You weren't joking," laughs Porthos, watching Athos down his cheap plonk and wondering how he'd remain standing for the gig. "What's that?" he says, holding a cupped hand to his ear.

Athos listens intently. "No idea. Can't hear a thing," he says, chucking the empty glass under his seat.

"Oh yeah. It's the anguished pleas for help coming from your liver," laughs Porthos.

"You're so funny," says Athos and as the lights dim he charges up to the front. 

The other two follow him, beer spilling everywhere. 

"At least he got to drink his," shouts Aramis as the support band begin their opening song of the evening.

They should be called Not Much Cop, decides Porthos and, losing interest, he turns, leaning back on the barrier to see how many other Molko clones there are in the audience. He spots a few, but none of them are as devastating as his own.

"Save my spot," yells Athos. "I need a piss."

"I'll go too," says Porthos. That way he can make sure Athos gets back okay.

Aramis shakes his head and laughs. Athos cocks his head to one side and studies Porthos. "I was right about you," he says, touching his lips softly to Porthos' mouth. "Come on then. Can't be long."

Inside the gents, Porthos discovers that his whole life is now viewed through composite, microscope eyes, every little detail intensified. Standing next to Athos at the urinals becomes a sexual experience. Just the act of having their cocks out together in public is highly erotic and blood thunders in his ears.

"Another Xander Harris linoleum moment?" asks Athos, nodding in amusement at the sight of Porthos' semi erect dick.

"Sod off," growls Porthos, stuffing his hard on, with difficulty, inside his jeans. As they push through the crowds to get back to the front, he leans in and whispers: "I'd fuck you right here if I could."

Athos turns and smiles and then kisses him once again on the lips, employing a tiny sweep of tongue. It's a simple thing yet outrageously sexy.

"That was quick," says Aramis who has successfully spread himself out across the barrier, warding off any intruders with angry looks.

"It's not too packed," says Porthos. "I think most people are still ligging themselves stupid at the bar."

As the support band finish to a rumble of applause, Porthos can feel the tremble of excitement ripple through Athos. Jaded no more, he's childlike in his enthusiasm.

"It's like Beatlemania," he says in Athos' ear, licking at the row of metal studs. "Good job you had a piss first, or you'd be wetting yourself by now."

Before Athos has a chance to respond, the lights dim, the smoke machines fire up and they're being blanket bombed by a wall of noise that's so loud it takes Porthos' hearing a while to adjust. He looks up at Molko and wonders how being on stage can transform a small, rather delicate man into a god. 

He knows every lyric by heart. He's listened to nothing but Placebo whenever Athos has been at home. The man is a bully as far as music is concerned. They've fucked to this band endlessly--every song a rock and roll cliché about sex and drugs--and now, with his arm draped around Aramis and Athos trapped in front of him, the rhythm of the bass drives his libido to new highs and he wants to fuck again.

Wrapped up in rock and sex, it comes as a shock to him when all of a sudden one of the roadies approaches. The guy leans in to speak to Athos who nods, and without a single backwards glance, is helped over the barrier and follows the man into the darkness.

"What the actual fuck?" says Porthos.

"Somebody's going to get the thrill of a lifetime," shouts Aramis.

"What?" says Porthos who's worried, wondering if Athos has been taken ill.

"He's going backstage to hang with the band," explains Aramis and Porthos feels so fucking naïve.

*

Two days later, naïve is no longer a suitable word to describe how Porthos is feeling. He's angry, bitterly hurt and also frightened. "Suppose something's happened to him," he says as he paces the living room floor. "Surely he should have called by now?"

"Athos?" says Aramis in amusement. "I'm pretty sure he thinks a telephone only works one way." He pulls Porthos into a hug. "He's fine," he adds, rubbing a soothing hand across Porthos' back. "He's having the time of his life."

Porthos sinks into Aramis' beautiful mouth, blocking out all the angry thoughts and turning his frustration into half a day of inspired sex. He wants Athos to come home and find them naked and buried in each other on the couch. Instead, he returns a full day later to find them drinking coffee at the tiny, rickety formica topped table in the kitchen. 

Porthos jumps to his feet, hands clamping down on a pair of narrow shoulders. "Where the fuck have you been?"

Athos looks bewildered. He has a sweet opium haze about him that's tainted with chemicals. He's smudged and grubby and he reeks of sex and wine. "Paris," he says as if that were the actual question.

"You fucked Brian Molko," Porthos says and he shakes Athos in time with the sentence, not roughly but just enough to prove how much he's hurting.

Athos nods, but he looks more bewildered than ever. "I did."

Porthos is broken. He's a tool in so many ways. "We taught you how to fuck, Athos. You don't just use us then go off and screw other people."

Athos stares at him and tips his head slightly to one side. "I don't understand," he says and he's not upset. Nor is he apologising or offering comfort. "Why is it okay for Aramis to fuck other people and not me?"

Aramis is leaning on the worktop, his arms folded and an indiscernible expression on his face. "I'd like to hear the answer to that question," he says in a monotone. "How come you don't give a damn who I sleep with?"

Porthos stares at him and tries to think of all the right things to say. Aramis is Aramis: a beautiful, wild tempest of a man. Aramis is his life and has been so for two years.

"You know what, I don't need an answer. It's becoming vividly clear." Aramis stalks off to his bedroom and Porthos follows him, panic growing by the second as he watches him throw clothes into a holdall.

"Aramis, _please_ ," he says. "I'm angry at him for using us. For screwing with us. You and me, we're special."

"Yeah well, it's great to feel special _after_ the main event," says Aramis, pushing past Porthos on his way to the front door. "If you're worried about the rent I'm sure your it boy will subsidise you."

A loud slam heralds the end of everything and Porthos sits on Aramis' bed, remembering too much. His eyes sting and he fights to gain control of his feelings.

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong."

Porthos looks up surprised. He'd assumed Athos had done his usual disappearing act, running off like a startled cat at the first sign of trouble.

Resting a hand on Porthos' shoulder, Athos leans forward and inclines his head. Carefully he touches parted lips to Porthos' and for a moment Porthos opens to him, fingers digging into his waist, clutching at him like a life belt in the open ocean. Then he remembers how it feels it be used and how much he loathes being treated that way. He thinks of a slammed front door and hates this emotional mess so much more than Athos ever could.

"Stop bothering me," he says, pushing at Athos with both hands, frustrated by his own stupidity. How could he have been so fucking thoughtless and driven Aramis away over this?

Curled up in a ball on the bed, he pulls the pillow over his head, shutting down for the rest of the day, and when he comes to, hours later, the flat is dark and lifeless. He's grown used to waking up to the smell of coffee, to the feel of being surrounded by bodies. This loneliness is awful: a leaden ball of despair sitting heavy in his stomach, tasting of bile and sadness.

In a panic, he races upstairs to Athos' room. As usual the door is unlocked, but there are signs of a hasty shower and a quick exit. He checks the tiny attic floor to be certain there's no-one here and discovers that, once again, he is now alone in the world.

*

"You weren't at your lecture today," says a stern voice from the bedroom door. "I know because I came by to see if you wanted to grab a coffee afterwards. You'll need a damn good reason for missing it. Either that or a doctor's certificate. You know how strict they are here."

Other than to leave the room for the occasional pee and pour a glass of water down his throat, Porthos hasn't moved in two days. He hasn't done _anything_ other than lie in the bed they shared as a threesome and mourn the end of something that was strange but perfectly formed.

"Will they certify me as broken?" he says, turning over to look at Aramis, but at the same time making sure he remains hidden behind the quilt. He must look gross after forty eight hours in this pit of despair.

"You'll have to see a psychiatrist for that," replies Aramis.

He isn't smiling. He sounds cool and so unlike himself that Porthos quails. "How about broken hearted?" he says and he's so scared of fucking things up even more that his voice comes out brittle and small. How can he explain the complexity of his feelings? "Of course I care who you sleep with," he says. "I care more than anything, but I've always felt lucky that you even allowed me to have a small part of your life."

Aramis sits on the bed next to him and strokes his hair. "You're a moron, Porthos du Vallon."

"I'm scared that I've lost you."

"Then you're more of a moron than I thought," says Aramis and he slides fully dressed under the covers and wraps his arms around Porthos, hanging on for grim death. "We had a fight, chéri. I don't throw away the most important thing in my life over a fight."

Porthos has vague memories of his mother fighting with various _uncles_ and him never seeing them again. "Most important thing?"

"Most important _things_ then," says Aramis. "You and Athos. I have two plural relationships on the go and I realised yesterday that only one of them means anything to me." He kisses Porthos on the nose. "And that one is weird and fucked up beyond belief, but I'm not ready to call quits on it unless you are."

Porthos can't believe his ears. "You're moving back?" 

"I've moved back, lock, stock and barrel," says Aramis. "All the stuff I kept at Louis and Anne's place. I'm investing everything in you and our bizarre stray boy. Where is he, by the way?"

"I think I hurt him a lot," says Porthos, hating himself for rejecting that first, freely offered french kiss. "He's gone."

"I'm sure we'll find him on the mat in the morning," smiles Aramis. "Plus we still own his bucket as security." 

He rolls Porthos over onto his back, peppering his face with kisses, but Porthos squirms away. "Don't," he insists. "I'm skanky as fuck."

"Nothing I like better than a skanky fuck in bed," laughs Aramis and he kisses him properly until Porthos forgets all about the need for a shower, distracted by the delirium of some turn and turn about, make up sex.

*

He wakes up to the aroma of fresh coffee and the sudden insertion of a cold, wet body in between himself and Aramis. Athos smells of sour wine, chemicals and sweat and, to Porthos, it's better than any designer fragrance.

"I thought you weren't coming back," he says. 

"You thought I wasn't coming back either," murmurs a sleepy Aramis. "You're so crap at this game, Porthos."

"Why wouldn't I?" says Athos, raising an eyebrow. 

Porthos thinks of _bothering_ and rejected kisses. 

"We belong together," Athos continues. "Even if you're too bull headed to realise that."

He may be confused about everything else, but one thing--the most important thing of all--he's got right.

"I love you both," says Porthos and his cup runneth over.

"God, it's far too early in the morning for that kind of shit," laughs Aramis and as he shoves at Porthos to shut him up his bracelet jangles and it's the best sound ever.

Athos hovers over them, smudged and damp but still pretty. Always pretty. He leans in closer and touches his mouth to Porthos, tongue tracing the outline of his lips then sneaking in to explore further. Porthos moans softly at the pleasure of this and enjoys every second.

Taking time to analyse the nuances of a kiss makes it all the more wonderful, he discovers. He plays softly with Athos' tongue, pushing back against the suction and then breathes into it, unwilling to break the moment. It's Aramis who does that by demanding his own kisses from Athos and they end up in fits of uncontrollable laughter, sharing their mouths three ways and fighting over each other.

"Are we together then?" asks Athos, kneeling up in between them, a hand on each of their cocks.

"Yes," says Porthos.

"Haven't we already established this?" yawns Aramis, folding his hand over Athos' and encouraging him to stroke.

"But I need rules," says Athos in a plaintive voice.

"How about this for an exclusivity contract?" Porthos smiles up at him. "We don't fuck around. We share everything and we make each other happy."

"Sounds good to me," says Aramis and Porthos is certain Athos would agree too if he hadn't already shuffled down the bed, busy putting the second rule into practice and sharing his mouth out equally between two hard cocks.

*

Poly life is a weird experience and it takes some getting used to. They do get odd looks when they wander about hand in hand, or with their arms draped all over each other, and some of their friends are a little challenged by their eccentricities, but they don't give a damn. Athos loves to french kiss now, doing it whenever the mood takes him, and both Porthos and Aramis enjoy nothing better than sharing mouthfuls of wine flavoured boy or girl. 

Some days are pure gold. They take time with each other, balancing out Porthos' need for reassurance with Aramis' desire for excitement, then blending it perfectly with Athos and his confusion over life, sex and gender. Some days, however, they get it horribly wrong and there can be a three way sulk going on that might last for hours. 

They soon add a new rule to the list--never go to bed in a strop--and, however much the psychologists might argue with this, sex is a wonderful fixative, the glue in their precious relationship. The ultimate truth of their very unique story is that the three of them are extravagantly happy, fuck in outlandishly ingenious ways, and can always get into the best parties if they ever feel a need to leave the bedroom -- which hasn't happened yet.

 

\---end


End file.
